Sibling Adventures
by Umbrae Lucis
Summary: Fingon decides that his baby brother isn’t enough fun.


**Sibling Adventures**

**Disclaimers:** All recognizable situations, characters etc belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate.  I intend no infringement of copyright and am making no money out of this.

**Summary:** Fingon decides that his baby brother isn't enough fun.  Unmitigated fluffiness.

**Rating:** G.

**A/N:** Turukáno/Turno – Turgon.

         Findekáno/Findo – Fingon.

         Nolofinwë – Fingolfin.

         Arafinwë – Finarfin.

         Findaráto – Finrod.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ISIS!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Turukáno slept in his high wooden crib by the window, bathed in the rays of Laurelin, blissfully unaware of the catastrophe that was about to befall him.  An elfling, already slightly muddied from his newest exploration of the garden, crept across the room, and balanced himself on the windowsill to look down upon his brother.  He was not yet old enough to have fully mastered the grace of the Quendi, and he had to hop around to prevent himself from falling backwards into the ivy growing riotously up the walls of the house.

Findekáno was bored.  He was supposed to be on his best behaviour today, as grandfather Finwë was to visit.  With a pang of the mildest guilt, the boy scrubbed at the patch of earth and scattered petals that had somehow appeared on his tunic.  There was to be no jumping in the pond to catch frogs; no accidental excursions onto the roof, and no running off into Tirion.  And it had been _so easily to sit in the flowerbeds while he read.  So now Sesarië had scolded him, pushing him back inside to play with his brother while she found him another tunic that did not need darning too much.  Findekáno scowled down at the baby, tugging at one of his own black braids.  Atar and Ammë had promised that Turukáno would be as much fun as the kittens he glanced at with covetous eyes.  Indeed, he was like a kitten, but not one of the rambunctious furballs that always seemed to be climbing up Uncle Arafinwë's robes and tumbling through Findaráto's hair.  Instead, he was like one of the newborn kits, eyes screwed up, small limbs akimbo, and one thumb curled tightly into his mouth._

He slumped down onto the narrow ledge, swinging his legs disconsolately, idly trying to see if he could kick one of Turukáno's feet.  The baby murmured and snuffled, but slept on.  The elder brother paused for a moment, and a sudden idea came to him.  Perhaps he had been going the wrong way about this, expecting Turno to start the games.  Of _course_ the babe would not know how to play; it was up to him to show him.  

With a gleeful leap, Findekáno scurried towards his room as fast as his short legs would carry him, all chagrin about Sesarië's rebukes forgotten, and returned moments later with his arms full of toys.  He glanced around cautiously to check if his mother had seen him, but she was not there, probably in the kitchens making the last preparations.  Teetering with one foot on the window-ledge, he lowered himself onto the edge of the crib.  It swayed ominously, and he had to cling on, but after a moment he felt safe enough to continue.  Reaching unsteadily behind him, he grasped Alianwë by his grubby ears and dangled him over Turukáno's slumbering form.  Of course, there was a virtually identical cloth rabbit lying beside his brother's head, but he was not the same.  He bore no stains from an incident with Atar's inkpots, few tooth-marks, and was altogether too clean.

"Wake up, Turno," Findekáno chimed.  "See what I have for you."

The baby wrinkled his nose as the soggy cloth brushed his face, and opened bleary grey eyes.

"Yes, that is right."

Turukáno wailed softly.

"Shush.  Do you not know that Ammë will be cross with me if you yell so," he hissed.  "Look, if you like Alianwe not, then here are some bricks for you to play with."  Nolofinwë had made them himself, and they were beautifully carved, showing all sorts of strange and wondrous creatures. Turukáno looked baffled for a moment, and then smiled gummily, reaching for the brick and gnawing on it.

"No, no, no!" The elfling snatched it away, and it fell with a dull thud into the soft blankets.  "What about this … or this?"

But the baby persisted in either ignoring or chewing every proffered toy.  Eventually, Findekáno pinched the bridge of his nose as he had seen his father do in moments of great stress, and sighed melodramatically.

"Well then what do you want?"

"Fi'no," Turukáno burbled, sucking on his brother's sleeve.

"You cannot eat me.  No, bad Turno."

"T'no."

And then another jolt of inspiration struck him.  Really, Ammë would be very proud of him for thinking of what his brother would like.

"Shall we go outside?  There are birds and trees, and grass.  You like grass." Only the previous week, the babe had tried to eat handfuls of the stuff, and his elder brother had snorted in disgust.  Even Findarato knew that horses ate grass, and elflings did not.  Somehow, he managed to wedge his arms under Turukáno's armpits, despite his vigorous squirming.  The first problem occurred when he tried to lift him up effortlessly as Anairë did.  Really, she made it look terribly easy, but this was like trying to lift one of his father's enormous books.  With a grunt of exertion, he hefted the baby upright, and nearly fell over the edge of the crib.  Steadying himself, he dragged the two of them onto the window ledge, and then contemplated how to get down.  Clambering to the floor, he decided that the easiest way would be to grasp Turukáno's hands and pull.  The baby landed on the floor and giggled up at him.

"See, now you are being good."  He tugged his brother upright, and tried to guide him across the slippery tiled floor to the door.  Alas for his plans, Turukano preferred his customary method of movement and, after a few nervous steps, promptly plunked down onto all fours and started off in a skidding crawl.

"Bad Turno," he reprimanded him.  "You will get your clothes all dirty."  But somehow it did not carry the weight of authority of the elder Elves.  Kneeling down, he wrapped one arm across his brother's shoulders and hauled him once more to his feet, ignoring the sulky pout.  "Up you get."

Turukáno tottered unsteadily as Findekáno pushed him onwards step by step.  At least the going was a little easier on the thick rugs, although his boots left muddy stains across the rich fabric.  The second catastrophe presented itself when they reached the door, and Turukáno adamantly refused to walk down the steps to the garden, even when his brother moved his legs for him.  He tried to sink to all fours, and Findekáno tried to stop him.  There was an almighty crash, and they toppled to the floor, the elder's head banging on the smooth marble as the younger's caught him under the chin.  It would have been hard to tell who started crying first, but soon the house re-echoed with their screams.

A door slammed somewhere, and the sound of rushing feet joined their hollers.

"Ai… Findekáno, what have you done?" Anairë scooped Turukáno up and began to search for broken bones.  "What did I tell you about not doing anything foolish today?"

The elfling curled into a ball and wept bitterly, consumed with guilt and outrage.  'Twas not fair; he had only been trying to be good.  He felt calm warm hands on his scalp, and shrank away, burying his nose in his tunic.  

"G'way." But he was not left alone and winced sharply as the fingers dug into the painful spot on one temple, under his dishevelled black braids.

"Anairë." Nolofinwë held up one hand, stained red in the brilliant light streaming through the house.  He turned his attention back to his son.  "Hush, pityonya, hush.  There, there 'twill be all right." He gathered the small, trembling body to himself, rocking his son gently, ignoring the stains of blood and dirt that began to besmear his impeccable raiment.

"It will not, Atar.  I have killed Turno," he sniffled.

"You have not." Anairë stretched out one hand to him.  "See." The baby was already gurgling, his tumble forgotten.  "But you, darling, you have hurt yourself."

"'Tis nothing." Findekáno put on a brave face, slightly spoiled by the trembling of his lower lip and the muffled croaks of misery he could not restrain.

Nolofinwë mopped at the gradually congealing blood with the hem of his cloak which he had forgotten to put off when he had arrived home with his parents to find his wife running through the corridors and the unmistakable wails of his sons ascending in pitch and volume.  Rising slowly, he hefted Findekáno onto one hip, disregarding the fact the boy had declared himself too old for this method of transportation long before.  Nor did Findekáno seem to mind, nuzzling into his neck, his choked sobs subsiding.  Anairë smoothed her elder son's hair, entwining one hand around her husband's waist so they stood tightly huddled together.

"I was going to show Turukáno the garden."

"And I am sure he would have been overjoyed to see it, pityonya," she soothed him.

"Of course you never did anything of the sort, my son." The voice was rich and deep, imbued with the knowledge of time beyond comprehension to the boy who burrowed even deeper into his father's velvet-clad shoulder.  That grandfather Finwë should see him like this, grandfather of whom he was more than a little in awe… But the King of the Noldor continued lightly, "Although I seem to remember a certain elfling nearly drowning Arafinwë in the small stream…"

"And then Arafinwë doing his utmost to drown a certain elfling in turn," Indis joined in.

Nolofinwë slipped one finger under his son's chin and tilted it upwards.  "I think that you bleed no more.  Will you bid your grandparents good day?"

"Good day, grandmother, grandfather," Findekáno said obediently.  With a shock, he met his grandfather's eyes to find them brimming with amusement.  Usually when they met Finwë had been resplendent in all the regalia of his office, and the boy had cowered uncertainly behind his father's robes, oft gnawing on a stray tassle.  But today, Finwë had abjured his finery and was simply clad in black breeches and a deep crimson tunic, his dark hair flowing free across his shoulders.  His right hand was wrapped around his Vanyar wife's slender fingers.

"Good day, Findekáno." His grey eyes glittered merrily.  "Now, Nolofinwë, shall we adjourn to the garden?"

"Aye, atar, for I fear that my sons shall make their way there whether we will it or no."

Laughing, they negotiated the steps, rather more successfully this time.

FINIS

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Atar – father.

Ammë – mother.

Pityoya – my little one.


End file.
